Unexpected
by RStiltskinned
Summary: Of all surprises he had ever received, she had been the most welcome. One-shot, set in Leroux/Kay-verse but can be read as ALW if you squint. Contains an OC.


To say that the conception and birth of Elsa was a surprise would have been an understatement.

When Christine – in tears – had told him that she was with child, Erik almost did not believe her. He had secretly always thought (and since his union with Christine also hoped) that he was unable to father children. It would not have been too surprising; he was old, his body had been through all kinds of torment and quite frankly, it had not exactly been flawless to begin with.

His initial disbelief was quickly dispelled by Christine's daily bouts of sickness and her increasingly stranger culinary preferences. When the reality of the situation had dawned on Erik, panic began to set in. What if the child resembled him? What if it would hate him, as so many others had? And what if, God forbid, Christine died during labor? Erik was certain that he would die along with her if that happened. And then what would become of the child?

The nine months of Christine's pregnancy were utter hell. Erik's days were a mixture of taking care of Christine and locking himself away in his music room where he would agonize himself with visions of Christine, lifeless and cold, and a wailing infant burdened with his demon's face. Christine suffered too; not only was the pregnancy taking its toll on her fragile physique, but her husband's new habit of distancing himself from her also gave her grief. And then the arguments! How they would yell at each other, one fuelled by hormones and hurt, the other by fear and self-loathing.

When the time of birth drew near, Erik asked Nadir to find a midwife who (persuaded by a hefty sum of money, of course) would bring Erik and Christine's child into the world. Madame Rigaud did not ask any questions; she had assisted many mothers, and often under stranger and even more scandalous conditions. When Christine's time came, Nadir – who had been visiting almost daily since he had heard of Christine's condition - was sent to fetch the midwife. When the elderly lady finally arrived, she seemed utterly unperturbed by the fact that she was in the cellars of the opera house and that the mother-to-be's husband was a masked specter. She all but threw Erik out of the bedroom. The last he heard was a few soothing words that the Madame spoke to Christine, before the door was closed and the most agonizing hours of Erik's existence began.

More than once, Nadir had to stop him from rushing into the room. When Christine's screams started, Erik broke down in front of the door, crying and cursing himself, until Nadir finally managed to pull him up and lead him into the sitting room. The next hours Erik was in a catatonic trance while his wife's exclamations of pain continued to ring through their underground home. Nadir, who had been present when his son had been born, was a little calmer, but even he looked anxious. Finally, there was silence, and both men stared towards the door of Erik and Christine's shared bedroom. And then the silence was pierced by one loud wail, and Erik could no longer keep himself from entering the bedchamber. He burst through the door and was immediately greeted by Madame Rigaud's reprimand _(Monsieur, get out at once, we are not finished yet!)_ but Erik did not even spare the woman one glimpse. His gaze was fixated on Christine, who looked utterly disheveled and thoroughly exhausted, but was blessedly alive. He was at her side in seconds, mumbling an incoherent string of words that spoke of love and devotion into her ear. She weakly smiled at him, sweat and tears glistening on her face, and Erik thought she had never looked lovelier than in that moment, despite the state she was in. But then, his attention was drawn to the bundle that Madame handed to Christine. "Madame, Monsieur, you have a perfect, healthy daughter. Congratulations!" The new parents both peered down at the tiny being that had been wrapped in a soft blanket. Erik gazed upon his daughter – _his daughter, what an improbable thought!_ – in wonderment.

She was whole. She was _perfect. _And, though he could scarcely believe it, she was _his._

_Well_, Erik thought, _with a mother like that, how could she be anything but perfect?_ The newborn had a few brown curls (he hoped they would turn blonde in time) on her head. When she opened her eyes, he found that they were blue, but that could be said for most infants. She had inherited Christine's slightly upturned nose (Erik would not have cared if she had had a nose to rival Nadir's. The main thing was that she, thankfully, _did _have one.) One delicate little hand reached out of the bundle, and Erik could picture those small, fine fingers upon a keyboard or around the bow of a violin someday. With tears in his eyes, Erik turned to his wife. "_Oh Christine_…what a gift you have given your Erik today! Oh, my love, she is perfect. Now Erik has two angels all to himself!" Christine beamed at him through tears. "You helped making her too, Erik," she whispered. "Oh Erik, I am so happy!" Fresh tears filled her eyes, and Erik reached over to wipe them away. "What shall we name her, _mon ange_?" he asked. "I had hoped we could perhaps name her Elsa, if you do not mind," was Christine's swift reply. Erik was not surprised – it had been her mother's name. He was quite certain that a boy would have been named Gustave. _Maybe next time_, he thought suddenly, and nearly jumped in shock. _Where on earth had that come from? One at the time, Erik! _he reprimanded himself. "Elsa she shall be," he agreed, and bent down to kiss first his wife, and then his daughter.

Elsa, even now at twenty years of age, was still the center of her parents' world.

As she did not have to share her mother's and father's affection with any siblings, she grew up to be rather self-confident and even a little spoilt. Her father especially had a hard time saying no to her, much to her mother's amusement and exasperation. When Elsa had been six, she had demanded that her father build her a little castle to play in, and despite Christine's protests ("Wherever are we going to put that, Erik?") he had obliged. And what a castle it had been! It was big enough for Elsa to stand in (for a while, anyway). It was crafted out of wood, beautifully carved, with little windows and double doors. Erik had spent hours carving and painting it (under Elsa's constant supervision, for much of the castle's design had been decided upon by her) and when it was at last finished, Elsa practically flew inside and thereafter only came out at mealtimes and in the evenings when she (rather unwillingly) went to bed. And then came the day when Elsa was no longer content to play alone and demanded that Erik join her. At first he had flat out refused, but eventually his daughter's pleas had softened him – as they always did – and, to Elsa's delight and Christine's great amusement, he somehow managed to fit his tall, lanky frame into the small castle.

Many years had passed since then, and the little girl had long outgrown her castle and become a young woman. Elsa's hair had not turned blonde, much to Erik's disappointment, but rather turned into a dark shade of brown. The curls, however, had remained, as had the blue colour of her eyes. Along with those eyes and the upturned nose, Christine had also passed her sweet little mouth onto her daughter. But that was where the resemblance to her mother ended; Elsa's sharp cheekbones and bony frame where all Erik's. And her hands, as Erik had predicted, were long fingered and elegant, much like his own, and well suited to playing an instrument. The instrument in question was the violin; Erik had tried to teach her to play the piano as well, but soon given up when he saw that her heart was not in it. Music in general only seemed to interest her peripherally. She learned to play the violin and to sing, and seemed to get enjoyment from it, but her real interest lay in architecture. Designing that little castle as a child had kindled a spark that grew into a true passion as Elsa grew up. And Erik did not object to his daughter's interest in the least – on the contrary! They spent hours over books and sketches and plans; Erik taught Elsa all that he knew about masonry and construction work and found that she was both a talented as well as an attentive student – much like her mother had once been when had taught her to sing.

And even though it was deemed improper for a lady, Elsa – at nineteen - found work as an assistant to a young architect. And though Erik feared that the man's true intentions for hiring her had nothing to do with her talent, Elsa continued to work for him and loved every moment of it. Christine was very pleased with her daughter's ambition; she herself had given up her own career – raising a child did not leave much time for singing – and was proud to see her daughter make a name for herself.

Yes, Elsa had brought a joy to Erik's life that he had not imagined possible. He had thought, when he wed Christine, that there would never be a happier moment in his life, but he had found, many times since, that there were moments that came very close.

And now, his darling child, his little girl, had told him that she wished to leave.

_London_, she had said. _Marc has received an important assignment there. He wishes for me to accompany him. _

_How dare he!_ Erik fumed. How dare this man tempt his daughter to follow him to a foreign country? _And since when did she address him as "Marc"?!_

Erik and Elsa had argued for days, angrily yelling at each other while poor Christine had been torn between consoling her frustrated daughter and calming her angry husband. Unfortunately, Elsa's temper was no better than Erik's, and as the girl had grown older, this had led to many fights between the two.

_You can't keep me locked away forever, papa!_

_Locked away. _Those words had brought back horrible memories that Erik only wished to forget…taking Christine through the mirror…her tears as he confessed to her his true nature…_and then the horror of his unmasking…_

His daughter had glared at him angrily; unaware of the emotional turmoil her words had stirred within her father. Finally, Erik had snapped out of his stupor and left the room in a huff to talk with Christine. She – while also unhappy at the thought of her only child leaving home – was not completely opposed to the idea of Elsa going to London, as long as a chaperone accompanied her. (And Christine had secretly already asked her old friend Meg – a married, respectable lady herself now - if she were willing to take on that responsibility, and Meg had said yes.)

"We knew it would happen eventually Erik, whether by marriage or through some other reason," Christine told him. "Besides, she is _your _daughter; you should not be so surprised that she wishes to see the world!" Erik laughed at that. He embraced Christine and leaned his forehead to hers. "But she is so young, _mon ange_. So very young. And she knows so little of the world! How can you possibly expect Erik to let his little one go out into a world he knows to be full of danger and cruelty?"

Christine sighed and stroked his cheek. "She will not be alone and unprotected. And she will not suffer as you did. Oh Erik, it pains me to let her go as much as it pains you, but if we hold her here she will come to resent us for it. Let her go and make her own experiences."

Erik had to begrudgingly admit that his wife's words held some truth. "And what of that boy, that _Marc_?" he asked, his voice laced with venom again. "Elsa may believe that he sees her solely as a colleague, but I am not so naïve. I will not allow him to be alone with her, and in a foreign city no less!" he seethed. At this, Christine smiled deviously. "Actually, dearest," she informed her flustered husband, "Meg has already agreed to accompany Elsa as a chaperone." Erik stared at Christine incredulously. That little vixen had been plotting behind his back! "Well, then, why even bother to ask Erik for his opinion!" he snapped. "You two seem to have everything planned out. By all means, go ahead, let our daughter go off to wherever she pleases!"

Christine took his face firmly in between her hands and looked at him sternly. Erik swallowed, nervous at her look and light-headed at her proximity.

"You listen to me, Erik, and listen well. Our daughter is a very intelligent young lady that will go out into the world and become a famous architect. As for Marc Bertrand, he is a perfectly charming young man and has been nothing but kind and courteous to Elsa. And if he does have any dishonourable intentions toward our daughter, then he will come into the proximity of Meg's boots. And she has quite a bit of strength in her legs, having been a ballerina and all." Christine gave him a look that clearly said _don't you dare disagree with me._ Erik huffed. He hated to admit it, but he was running out of arguments.

"But she's our little one. We must protect her…" he tried feebly.

"We must protect her, yes, but we mustn't smother her. It is her life, and she alone can choose what to do with it." Again, Erik was reminded of the past – how the woman who now stood before him as his wife had told him almost the same words – _It is my life, and you cannot choose what I do with it! _Erik sighed.

"Well, if your friend indeed accompanies her, then perhaps I shall change my mind on the subject," he reluctantly conceded. "But I want to meet this Marc in person first!" At his wife's worried look, he quickly added, "Not to scare him off, my love. I merely wish to finally know the man who wants to spirit my daughter away. Is that not understandable?"

Christine nodded in agreement. "Yes, my dearest, it is. We shall meet him together you and I. And who knows, maybe you and him will get along well after all!" Erik snorted – he sincerely doubted that. As a rule, he did not get on well with anyone – present company excluded of course. But he did not wish to argue further. He drew Christine closer, and she contently pressed her face against his shoulder.

Perhaps it would not be so bad.

Meg could be trusted, Erik knew that.

And if all else failed, he could still punjab Marc Bertrand.


End file.
